


The Boy in the Forest

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe, BAMF Stiles, Early History, First Kiss, Kate Argent is still awful, Legends, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, POV Stiles, Slow Build, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 16:38:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: There is a boy in the forest. A boy who doesn't fear the darkness and danger, who walks with it, hand in hand.OR:Stiles is magic and creates the first werewolf.





	The Boy in the Forest

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a tumblr post that I can't find now but basically the legend that if you call a wolf by name, it will call forth it's humanity. 
> 
> I played with it a bit, but. I'm mostly pleased. <3

_ Don’t leave the village, little Mischief. _

That’s what she told you and you listened to her, you did, because Mama had never lied to you, never given you a reason to distrust her. You listened because you weren’t a warrior, you were special.

You Saw things the others didn’t, and you sat near your mother’s knee, Lydia pressed close, and you didn’t hunt, but you protected your little village, and Mama said that mattered more than killing a deer or two.

Papa grinned and kissed her hair and nodded, and you knew where you belonged—with them, in Beacon, always.

 

~*~

 

_ You are too young to protect Beacon, Mieczyslaw. _

That’s what he told you, and you glared at him, tears on your cheeks and fury in your heart, because you  _ hated _ him. He stared back, impassive and calm, and you hated him for that too.

He wanted to help, and Mama trusted him, and you knew it, knew you should allow it, but Beacon was hers and yours and you didn’t want him, didn’t want to need him. 

Papa touched your shoulder, something broken and grim in his eyes and you deflate and step aside.

 

~*~

 

_ The woods are dangerous, son. _

That’s what they whisper, when you stand on the edge of Beacon and watch it, and Scott leans into your side.

You are curious by nature, something your Mama loved in you, something she said was a  _ good _ thing.

But Scott’s hand is tight on his spear and your arm, holding you in place. Keeping you in the flickering firelight.

You watch the dark woods, the massive shapes moving through them, and wonder what life is like, beyond your little village.

 

~*~

 

_ The wolves are deadly, brother. _

You heard it your entire life, but you never believed it, not until you’re standing in the oak glade, where Mama grew monkshood and wolfsbane, thistle and belladonna. She taught you all their names and where they hid under the brush, and it’s easy, calming to pick the dead leaves from them, to pluck what you need and murmur blessings and thanks while you do.

You’re alone, Scott called away and Deaton reading auguries for an upcoming hunting trip, and Papa training with his warriors. Even Lydia was busy and you slipped away, slipped your careful watchers and into the forest.

It’s the glade, your glade,  _ her glade,  _ and safe.

You lose yourself in the serenity there, the quiet close feeling of Mama and you don’t realize the danger until it’s breathing, hot and wet against your neck.

Absently, you shove it away and then freeze.

You twist, and stare, wide eyed and scared, at the wolf.

He huge, taller than you while you kneel in the dirt, black as night, with bright eyes every color of the forest.

He stares at you and you want to run screaming, because you can feel the damp wet of his nose, still, against your palm, can feel the sharp press of his teeth when you pushed him away.

He huffs a little, and drops to his haunches, and his expression is more baffled than furious, and you take a breath.

A wet snarl rips through the glade, and a light gray wolf bursts out of the trees.

The black wolf slams into him, knocking the gray away from you, and you yelp, snatch up your little sharp cutting stone, and  _ run. _

Behind you, you hear the fighting and the sharp cry of a wolf in pain, and silence, for a long moment. And then the eerie cry you know from the night when the fire is low and the wind is whipping through the trees, a wolf howling triumph.

 

~*~

 

_ You are special, little Mischief. _

You don’t tell Scott. You don’t tell Scott or your Papa, or Lydia. You twist your herbs into tinctures and chant your spells with Deaton, you listen to the stories about the wild woods beyond your village, and you think.

He’d been staring at you and it had happened, so fast, but you saw it in his eyes. Curiosity and something like amusement.

“Tell me about the wolves,” you ask your father, one night and Papa glances at you, his blue eyes tired and surprised.

It has been years since you asked for stories of the wolves. Since your mother died.

“They were in this land before us,” he says, slowly. “They lived in this land, a pack of them, fierce and wild and strong, and when we came here, they let us. We stayed in our village and they stayed in their wood, and we existed in a kind of peace.”

“But,” you prompt, your voice tight and breathless.

“But,” he sighs, “that was a pack we knew. Other wolves came. Demon creatures we didn’t know, who didn’t trust us. Who hunted us. They saw prey and we saw them as death, and we learned to kill. We lost trust. We stayed near our fires and watched them in the dark, with their hungry eyes and sharp teeth. They kill us, and we kill them.”

“Deaton says we never lived with them in peace,” you say, and Papa’s face tightens.

“Deaton is an outsider,” he says, voice sharp, “He doesn’t know our ways. He doesn’t know what you can do.”

You stare at him, something sharp and aching in your gut, and he smiles, gentle and sad, the way he does when he thinks of your mother, and touches your hair. “You are special, Stiles. You are her special boy. “

 

~*~

 

_ You are our future, little Mischief. _

You learn. You learn to carve sigils into the trees and in the dirt, to pain them on your father and his warriors, protective and strong. You learn to run fast and fleet, your red cloak flapping at your ankles as you dart along with the deer and the wily fox. You learn to read the winds and the creak of the trees, to See visions in the fire and smoke, to heal.

You learn how to bend fire to your will, to make it your weapon. How to trick the forest into letting you pass unseen, sneaking into warrens and burrows and dens, and  _ taking _ . You learn to break bones and twist spells of illness and death, how to steal strength instead of restore it. You learn to kill.

You learn and you learn while Deaton watches you with concern that gives way to fear and disgust, and your father smiles, always, always he smiles at you, full of faith and patience and pride.

You think of your Mama and her kind eyes and skilled hands, you think of your father and the way he is gentle and just, even when he kills, you think of Scott who still cries when he kills

You feel the darkness that could claim you, so easily, and you cling to them, your dead mother and your strong father and your loyal friend, the bright strong anchors that hold you to the light.

 

~*~

 

_ The world is dangerous, Stiles, and you are the danger I fear. _

Deaton leaves like he came, in the night, with more mystery than not, leaving unsettled questions in his wake. You sit in his little tent of animal hides, where he kept hurt animals he was healing, a baby fox kit in your lap and you wonder if he’s right.

If you are the danger Beacon should fear.

Lydia crawls into the tent and curls into your side, smelling of wood smoke and flowers, with a hint of nightshade. “You’re scared,” she says, her voice low and steady.

“We’re alone now, and I’m—”

“You are stronger than Deaton could ever dream to be,” she says, sharply and you blink at her. “And we are your people. You  _ will _ keep us safe.”

“What if I can’t?”

She scoffs, and kisses his cheek, runs gentle fingers over the fox’s tiny hand. “You will.

 

~*~

 

You see the wolves, still. The gray wolf who snaps at you. A small black female with a high yipping bark, that all the others differ to. The sandy blonde female and the two males who always flank her, one pale bright and lean, one dark as night and massive. The elegant female that is almost feral when she spots you, snarling and snapping before one of the others herds her away.

And the black wolf.  _ Your _ black wolf.

He watches you, when you wander through your forest, your club at your back, your fox at your feet, your senses stretched to feel all of the wood, and you call to him. Sometimes he’ll peer out of the trees at you, his ears tipped forward and you’ll laugh at him, at the slightly put upon expression on his wild face. But mostly, he pads along, silent and out of sight, only the heavy incessant weight of his gaze to remind you he is there.

 

~*~

 

_ The world is dangerous, Stiles, and not all the danger lives in the wood. _

They come in a wave, black haired beauty and smiles seducing Scott, bright gold curls and cruel eyes watching everything. 

They aren’t a village, not like Beacon with it’s sprawling family lines, a community tied by choice and not blood.

They’re different.

Family bound by blood and a strange mission you don’t understand, fierce warriors and expert hunters, they slip into Beacon like the first frost on the ground—one morning you wake and the Argents are there, sitting at your boarders, their smiles false and edged with teeth.

Scott loves them.

Your father welcomes them into Beacon.

Lydia smiles at Allison and promptly forgets your wards and spells and the afternoons she spends with you.

You—

You don’t trust them.

You slip into the wood, and sit against a tree trunk, your fox perched on your shoulders, breathing in his familiar scent. You aren’t surprised, when your black wolf pads out of the trees and lowers himself next to you. His head is a heavy weight on your knee and he whines, this high sad note that makes you reach out, sink your fingers into the thick fur.

He huffs, and you nod. “I know, big guy.”

~*~

 

_ You’re wrong, Mischief. Trust me. _

You look at Scott, his eyes big and earnest and a little bit dopey as he stares at the youngest Argent. You smile and nod, let him drag you along to watch Allison and Kate spar. You shudder when Kate throws her cruel blades, hooked and ragged, meant for ripping and tearing. You shiver when Allison laughs, high and bright as she shoots arrow after arrow after arrow with deadly precision.

You fidget under Gerard’s heavy gaze and Chris’s harsh instruction of Scott.

“They aren’t bad,” Scott tells you.

“You have to trust some people,” your father says.

“You’re paranoid,” Lydia pronounces. 

But you watch them, and your fox hides when Kate saunters through the village, and you remember the low noise your wolf made.

They say you’re wrong, that the Argents are here for honorable reasons.

You can’t shake the feeling, crawling skin at the back of your neck, that the Argents are lying.

 

~*~

 

It’s been a full moon cycle, and you haven’t learned to trust the Argents, not truly. But you’ve—accepted them.

You even like Allison, with her big smile, and warm word for you as she clings to Scott’s side.

Your father doesn’t  _ distrust _ them, but he’s quieter, now, when he returns from leading the warriors on a hunting party, when Gerard stalks through the village, snapping and snarling at the villagers.

You carve your runes and paint your sigils on your father and Scott and Parrish, and you watch, but

_ you forget to pay attention. _

Kate is laughing, high and cruel, when your fox starts chittering, the anxious pitchy whine that you know. You straighten, wipe monkshood and ash from your hands.

The huntress is dragging a wolf through Beacon, and your gut churns, twisting and you stare at her, at the blood on Kate’s face and hands and the wolf’s gut, ripped open and dragging through the dirt.

You know this one. It’s the small black female, the one who almost seemed to laugh when she saw you.

Kate grins, bright and gleeful as you stare in shock and your stomach twists.

“Did—did she attack you?”

The laughter dies, and it takes a moment to realize that  _ you _ asked the question, that the quiet excited murmur is dying out and Kate is staring at you, eyes narrowed and hard and you lick your lips. Firm up your shoulders and

“He asked a question, Mistress Argent.”

Your father’s voice is cold and hard, and you lean into his steady familiar presence.

“She’s a wolf. Wolves attack us, they kill us. That’s what they do. I just killed this bitch before she could kill me.”

John’s voice is hard, and your stomach is twisting, because you know what that means, her evasive answer.

You  _ know. _

“Did she attack you first.”

Kate smiles when she says it, the word dropping negligent and uncaring. “No.”

Deep in the wood, the wolves are howling.

 

~*~

 

_ You were right, Mischief. _

You stand at your father’s side, clear eyed and cold, while they pack and leave. Gerard is full of smooth threats and Kate is snarling fury, so much like the wolves she likes to kill.

“You aren’t welcome here,” your father says, firm and unmovable.

“They’re animals.  _ Dangerous _ animals,” Gerard spits.

“We do not hunt anything in this wood without cause,” you say, and you can feel your magic coursing in your limbs, in the runes that ring your village and trickle into the trees. “Not even dangerous animals.”

Your gaze flicks to Kate when you say it and your lips curl back into a smile that is more snarl than sweetness.

She laughs at you, but she goes.

Night is falling and the wolves are howling, have not stopped howling since Kate dragged the she-wolf here, and they are cast into the black night, out of the ring of your village’s fires.

You don’t even feel guilty about it.

 

~*~

 

You sit in your glade for three days, and on the third, the black wolf slinks out of the underbrush. Your fox chitters anxiously, licks at his jaw and the wolf growls, low in his throat, batting the fox down before he sits on his haunches, staring at you.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, tears wet on your cheeks, and he shifts a little. “I’m so fucking  _ sorry.” _

You stay like that, for a long time, crying silently while the wolf stares past you, his eyes heavy and old. Finally, he huffs and shakes himself as he stands. He licks the tears from your cheek, and snuffles at your throat, just for a moment, before he vanishes into the wood.

 

~*~

 

_ Be careful, Mischief. Be careful of the magic you use. _

You find the spell in your mother’s books. You memorize it, and for days, you let the idea play in your head.

You could do it.

You spend a week toying with it, with the look you know your father will wear, with the quiet disapproval you feel from your fox, with the desolate air of your wolf, and the pack howling in the night.

You gather what you need, the wolfsbane and belladonna, the sage and ash and oak to burn, the mistletoe and cat tongue.

You hide it all away and wait for the full moon.

 

~*~

 

_ I love you, Stiles. _

Your father is a leader, the warlord and village leader, and he has more to do than to watch you spin spells and play with herbs. You think, sometimes, that he wanted a warrior to follow him, wanted a son like Scott.

But he’s always looked at you the way he watched your mother—with love shining in his eyes and a proud quirk to his lips. Even when he was tired and your words and magic confused him, he looked at you like you were every good thing in the world.

You have questioned many things in your life, but the love of your father, and your mother before him, has never been one of those things.

 

~*~

 

_ The wolves are not the danger you watch for, little one. _

The smoke wakes you. It’s thick and familiar, a scent you recognize as aconite even before you are fully awake.

What you don’t immediately understand is  _ why  _ it’s burning.

The heat registers a moment too late, and you curse, rolling to your feet. You fox is chittering, anxious and demanding, as you snatch up your pouches and jars, shove them clattering into your bag and  _ run. _

The village is burning, and you can hear shouting from the edges of the wood, hear the screams of your friends, people you’ve known your entire life dying. You can hear the high cruel laugh that is too familiar, and above it, above the roar of the flames and the dying and the laughter, you can hear the wolves howling.

You pause, scratch a rune into your skin, hissing as it burns hot, hotter than the flames licking at your heels, and then you dart through the burning village, trusting your magic to wrap around you and hide you, as you slip past the Argents who ring your village in death and fire, slip past the dead shot down as they ran for safety, slip past everything you’ve ever known and vanish without a trace into the wood where danger and—maybe,  _ maybe— _ a safe haven waits.

 

~*~

 

You run until your feet are bleeding and you don’t so much decide to stop as you collapse, dropping between one step and the next, and you have the muzzy thought to be grateful you land in leaves and brush and not on rocks, before you drop into the depths of unconsciousness.

You wake, hours later, screaming, the heat of the fires still licking at your skin, and your fox nips at your fingertips, jerking you out of the nightmare and into the gloomy morning. The air is damp and cool and smells faintly of burnt wood, and you curl into a ball, bite your fist and sob for everything you’ve lost.

Your fox curls into you, so close he seems a part of you, alone in a wild world.

 

~*~

 

You don’t go back. You trudge deeper into the forest, wrapped in your dirty red cloak. You forage as you go, gather familiar herbs and plants, pluck nuts from squirrels holes, and mushrooms from the damp ground. Your fox brings you small offerings, mice and squirrel and once, a brace of bunnies that makes your stomach turn even as you skin and roast them.

The cave you eventually crawl into is full of sharp jagged edges, dark and dank and cold. But it’s hidden and it’s the first time since you woke in the tent you shared with your father that you feel safe, and you curl there, your cloak wrapped around you, your fox a familiar weight in your lap and you finally allow yourself to sleep.

 

~*~

 

He wasn’t there. Your father, Scott. They went on a hunting trip, just them and Parrish. You think they might still be alive.

You hope, they might still be alive.

 

~*~

 

_ The woods are dangerous, Stiles. Be careful. _

The woods are dangerous and you hear your mother’s warning when you walk them, but the woods are yours.

As the initial shock and exhaustion wears away, rage replaces it and you snarl at your fox, at your spells, at the slow healing burns on your arms and legs.

The woods are dangerous, but they are  _ yours _ and you think maybe you could be dangerous too.

 

~*~

 

The howling wakes you, but it’s not a surprise, really, seeing your black wolf in the small opening of your cave. He blots out the stars, his big body blocking the wind and almost lost to the darkness. You can hear the others howling, paws scrabbling over rock, the snaps and snarling and yips of a pack at play. You stare at him and he huffs, slinks forward and noses at you, at your fox, until you finally push him away and he  _ whines _ , displeased.

Stares at you with big, sad eyes until you sigh and relent to rub his ears, silky soft between your fingers, and murmur, “I missed you too, big guy.”

 

~*~

 

It’s easy, in the end.

To whisper the spell and burn the herbs. To slice your palm and let it drip into the bowl. You watch them, your fox and your wolf, his pack ranged behind him in the dark wood, and you think it’s dangerous but worth it.

You smear the bloody ashes on your ears and your lips and you whisper the spell as the moon hangs fat and bright in the sky.

 

~*~

 

_ Listen to the stories, Mischief. They’re important. _

Your father told you of the wolves who lived in your wood, the ones who watched your village and existed in a kind of peace.

Your mother taught you magic lives in every creature and you could draw it out, if you chose.

There were other stories. Of course there were. Stories about the power of names and the men who wore the skins of animals, the chosen of the gods.

Men who lived like beasts, wild and savage, and longing for something more.

Sometimes, when you sat with your wolf in the quiet of your mother’s glade, when your fox chattered sharp and furious in your ear, you wondered what stories they could tell you.

 

~*~

 

The magic burns on your tongue and in your blood and the wolf growls, a sharp rumbling noise that you feel in your bones, and you gasp, a name spilling from you.

_ Derek. _

The wolf stills and for a moment, you think you did it wrong, that the spell failed, and your palm tingles where you cut it.

Then your wolf shudders, gives a low groan and you whisper it again.

It washes over him like water, a twist of muscle and bone that makes your stomach churn and he gasps,  a noise so human you want to cry, and then he’s  _ there, _ blinking at you with eyes every color of the forest, and he is all skin and muscle and a bewildered smile. And a voice, higher than you expect, softer than it has any right to be.

_ “Stiles.” _

 

~*~

 

You call your fox by name, call him  _ Gemij _ and watch from Derek’s arms as he shifts, snarling and snapping and ill-tempered, glaring at Derek wrapped around you.

He’s sharply possessive, and familiar and yours.

They are both of them, yours.

 

~*~

 

“How?” Derek asks, when he has calmed his anxious pack and returned to you, slid behind you and wrapped himself around, and already it is easy and familiar to lean into his solid heat.

“It—my mother told me stories,” you say. “That if you call a wolf by name, by their true name, you can call forth their humanity.”

Derek blinks at him. “We had stories. My mother told us stories. That once we could shift, walk on four legs or two, and we lived with the villagers, as men and as wolves, and we protected each other. But it’s been so long—I didn’t. I thought they were just stories.”

You lean into his weight and clutch him closer to you.

“No one believed them.”

 

~*~

 

_ When you are in danger, sweet boy, run. Run to the wolves. _

Time passes, and winter fades. The pack keeps you and your fox—he likes his fox form and you only call him free on the full moon—fed, and Derek nudges you from the cave, drags you into the woods and nips at your heels as you run with him and his pack, fleet and quick, and safe.

You don’t go back to your village, and Derek doesn’t push you there.

One full moon, though, six moons after you first cast the spell to call him from his wolf, Derek curls in your arms and watches the fire and you say, softly. “It was Kate.”

“I know,” Derek says, and you hear all the fury you feel in your own heart, reflected in his barely contained snarl.

“I want to kill her,” you confess, and one of the wolves tilts her ears in your direction, huffs a little.

Derek’s arms tighten around you, and you look at him, at the solemn set of his face, and the steady gleam of his gaze.

“I’ll help you.”

You kiss him then, quick and hard and fierce, and his hands on you are gentle, warm as his lips, steady and familiar.

 

~*~

 

_ The wolves are deadly, Stiles, and the hunters protect us. _

You emerge from the woods slowly. You run with the wolves, for miles and hours, days sliding by racing in the middle of the pack, growing stronger. You carve sigils into your skin, paint it there with a needle and dye. You mix your spells while Gemin sits curled at your feet, and your wolves watch.

You listen to your forest, and the whispers on the wind that speak of a deadly family of hunters, of a woman who kills quick and cruel.

You listen to the whispers of survivors of Beacon, of the warlord without a village, and the boy without a brother, of a warrior filled with a quiet rage and nothing to spend it on.

You listen. And when you are strong and sure and  _ ready, _ you emerge from the woods, your pack quiet and deadly and  _ human _ and  _ yours  _ at your side.

You smile as Erica throws back her pretty head, golden hair shining, and howls.

_ Let them hear my wolves howling, _ you think.  _ Let the Argents be afraid.  _

 

~*~

 

_ Beware the forest, little hunter. Beware the boy who lives there and runs with wolves.  _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments give me happy fluffy feels. You can chat with me about writing and fandom (oh lord, Hoech's eyes) on [tumblr](http://areiton.tumblr.com/)!


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